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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23023798">Radio Static Mind</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parrot_Assbutt/pseuds/Parrot_Assbutt'>Parrot_Assbutt</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bendy and the Ink Machine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Autistic Sammy Lawrence, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Not romance-centric, Unresolved Emotional Tension, chapter names are song lyrics because I'm a nerd, just a dude with complicated feelings, minor mention of pairings, they're ink people in this y'all know the drill, why go to therapy when you can scream into the void</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:28:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,022</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23023798</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parrot_Assbutt/pseuds/Parrot_Assbutt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes from the mind of Sammy Lawrence, in debatable order. Disjointed and nonsensical as the song of radio static.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sammy Lawrence &amp; Norman Polk, Susie Campbell &amp; Sammy Lawrence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Radio Static Mind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The Prophet had no idea who wrote these messages.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Among the pleas begging to go home, accusations scrawled across the walls, there was an arrow pointing to his immediate left. He probably wouldn't have found it at all had he not been scrounging for tools for Alice. While searching through the crates he'd brushed his hand against it, the ink sending gut—churning shivers through him. Cautiously, gently, he'd traced out the shape, until he was certain of its direction.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The arrow was rather large, as most other writings were; the Prophet had found it hidden behind one of the crates stacked against the wall. To his dismay, however, he found a utility shaft that housed only cobwebs, not so much as a cog in sight. Out of curiosity, or perhaps just to humor himself, The Prophet dipped a finger into the wet ink dripping down his body and drew a crude doodle of a cog on the wall above where the arrow hid, and a question mark. He returned to Alice empty—handed that time.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sometime later, he returned to that same level, only this time without an errand. The arrow and the utility shaft had since been forgotten, so he could be forgiven for jumping, startled by the small pile of cogs sitting atop the crate, a large arrow painted on the wall above, pointing to them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"You really weren't kidding me." Alice sighed, when he brought her down from her hideaway. "Did they leave anything else? A message?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Prophet looked away sheepishly. "I didn't think to check."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Did you go down there at all?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Er—no."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alice rolled her good eye and turned on her heel. "Leaving the work to me, again." She teased, and started down the stairway. "Stay close, the lights are all out for the next level or so." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Prophet hurried to catch up to her, boots thumping and thunking in comparison to her feather—light steps.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Keeping a firm grip on each other's wrists, they proceeded down the levels, The Prophet focusing in for any sounds of leaking ink or rogue Butcher Gang clones. On the third flight, finally, there was light, and the end of the shaft. The Prophet kept guard as Alice searched the area.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do you think it's the same person from before? Who made the maps?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No, that was Allison and Tom. I expect they've moved on by now. It could be the one who marked the stash of vinyls."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Maybe." The Prophet hummed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Damn it." Alice swore under her breath. The Prophet felt his heart sink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What's wrong?"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Above Alice's head hung a faded sign reading "Level 14", and the abyss sprawled out ahead of her.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"It's flooded. There's no way except back up."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do you see any wall circles down there?" The Prophet offered. "We could try to portal to a drier area."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No, just one of the old projectors. This would be the perfect time to have Henry with us"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Prophet remembered him vaguely, in his younger years before the ink, the aging man who'd left to wander the studio with Boris. Curious man, but probably long gone by then.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We'll have to find another way, maybe if we can get the lift working again..."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With that she took his arm again, and they returned to the darkness.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sammy Lawrence had never formally met the studio's Projectionist, despite working so closely with the man. Sometimes it seemed he was the only one who hadn't.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"So he lifts Wally by the waist and they're spinning around the break room—oh you should have seen it, they're just too cute together." Susie tittered, hanging lightly on the music director's arm. He had to admit she was right: just hearing about their happiness together was enough to tickle him pink, though he only let it show through a small grin.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"So, are you busy after—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"<em>SUSIE HELP ME—</em>" Wally cut her off, bursting into the office like a bat out of hell and looking just as horrified. "Norman wants to meet up for drinks Saturday Night and l said yes!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sammy blinked. "That's...bad?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No! My problem's what am l supposed to wear? l ain't done this dating thing in a while, then again l was never an expert at it before, what do you even wear to go out drinking anyway? Is this some sorta dinner thing where you gotta—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Between Susie's squeal of excitement and Wally's motormouth, Sammy cringed and covered his ears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don't worry about a thing, l know the perfect outfit for these situations. Sammy, wanna help?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Huh?" He partly uncovered an ear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do you wanna come help me help Wally?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh—no, l can't, Joey asked me to stay after."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Aw. I'll see you Monday, then." With that she led Wally out, both of them practically bouncing as they went, though one was with pure excitement whereas the other was pure nerves. Not long after, Henry came into the office to kiss Sammy goodnight, told him to clock out at a decent time, then he too left for the evening.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The clock seemed to taunt him as it ticked away, and Sammy was on the verge of tearing his hair out. He loathed the silence, but not nearly as much as that damn ticking. He needed noise, he needed music, radio static, any thing—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mumbling outside the door. Sammy trained in on the sound, trying to identify who it was. He got little snippets of the conversation.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>"So you wrap this box here and see— no sparking." Thomas Connor? Yes!, Sammy reminded himself, he was here to do maintenance on some wiring. And another—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>" —the insulator, see, it's the same they use in—"</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Norman?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It made sense, after Sammy thought a moment. He did man the projectors, of course he'd have some knowledge of...electrical things. Which Sammy clearly did not, he chastised himself. Electrical things, indeed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They continued talking, then a laugh from both of them, and Sammy could no longer make out what they were saying. Still, the background hum of their voices soothed him, and he was back to work.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm planning on this being a multi-chapter story with two parts per chapter: one before Henry left the studio, and one after he returns.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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